baggage that goes with mine
by PorcelainNinja
Summary: Please pick up all baggage at the luggage claim to the right of the terminals. No, not terminal baggage. I think that goes with the actual musical. This looks to be just two people in an airport after a year of running away. T for Mimi's mild mouth.


**A/N: I just had some random mid-La-Vie-Boheme lyrics stuck in my head the other day, and was trying to figure out how "I'm looking for baggage that goes with mine" might be interpreted differently, and…well…this! (So, yeah, completely alternate reality, just me screwing around with some lyrics, which end up being more and more far-fetchedly-included as time goes on, I do believe.) (Enjoy or don't—it's really up to you. :D) (Also I apologize for my horrendous Spanish-typing skills, and lack thereof.)**

She's just standing there, watching the luggage carousel go past, getting emptier and emptier with each rotation, humming a little to herself as she waits—for what he doesn't know, and his curiosity gets the better of him.

"What—no baggage?" he quips, hoping he sounds cooler than he feels—he doesn't go out in public that much, not anymore.

"I've _got_ baggage, I'm just looking for more—looking for baggage that goes with mine," she clarifies, indicating the suitcase by her side. "Though I think it might be a hopeless case at this point." It's clear that the remaining luggage—a red clunky monstrosity and a forlorn and tattered Barbie backpack—in no way match her sleek striped pink-and-black bag perched on a nearby bench.

"Ah, they always have someone take the wrong bag—it'll show up in the lost and found tomorrow. Come back another day—you don't want to be late for…wherever."

"A lunch date," she supplies to fill his floundering silence.

"You flew from Santa Fe to New York City for a _lunch date_?" He's a little incredulous—understandably.

"I…made a mistake. I'm coming back home."

"No way."

"What?"

"I…that's what I'm doing too. I made…I made a mistake. And…I ran away," he admits out loud for the first time, in front of this complete stranger, no less.

"Well, no better day than today to make amends, right?" she chirps, distracting him from sinking back into his emotional shell.

"Yeah," he smiles and looks into her eyes for the first time. "Hey—haven't I seen you before?"

"I mean, we were on the same plane just now, I don't know if you noticed that we're at the same baggage claim—"

"No, but I mean before. You look familiar."

"I get that a lot," she laughs. "Well, where'd you run away from? If we're both coming home to New York City—"

"That's it! You're not a cop, are you?"

"Used to be a plainclotheswoman—no one ever suspects me," she winks.

"No, yeah, it's you! You used to hang out in the lobby of my old apartment building! I didn't recognize you without the handcuffs."

She laughs in surprise at the sentence she thought she'd never hear again after she'd put her dancing days behind her. He starts to laugh to, hers is so purely happy it's contagious, but is cut off by a muffled flamenco emanating from her front pocket.

"¿Hola? Sí, estoy aquí, ¿y tú?" He tries not to listen, but she's slipped into an accent too natural to be faked, sultry and Spanish and everything his four years of Spanish Lit could never bring out in him. "Sí, por supuesto. No—no tengo mi billeta—avión estúpido—un otra día, ¿posible?" Muffled shouting from the other end causes her to lean away from her hot pink cell. "Sí, sí," she soothes. "No. Estoy aquí ahora, ¿comprendes? I'm here now. I'm not going to leave again." She switches back into English at the end in a calming attempt that clearly failed; he watches as she stares at the phone in disbelief—apparently she's been hung up on.

"Goodbye, love!" Her sassy outrage at the deadened phone call makes him happy for some inexplicable reason. He hasn't smiled in almost a year—almost 525,600 minutes without even a flicker of a grin.

"So…still going on that lunch date?" he asks with the hint of a smile in his eyes, hands in his pockets and a shy grin spreading across his face.

"Sounds like there's been a change of plans," she sighs, the accent still lingering faintly in her speech. "Glad he decided to make contact before taking off to Planet Piss-Me-Off—from which he rarely departs, I might add—and I think my wallet's gone—" she cuts herself off abruptly, breathes in through her nose sharply, and exhales, sliding a smile back onto her face. "We should leave—another plane'll be here soon enough."

"We? I mean—yeah. Don't give up on, um, what you own—your bag'll come back eventually. I mean, if you love it, set it free!" He gestures grandiosely in an attempt not to be awkward that was doomed from the start. "So…give up on that lunch date?"

"Well, I don't exactly have a wallet…"

"'Sall good. I'll cover you—just for today, understand." He smiles and repeats the offer. "Want to go to lunch, here in the fabulous New York City? They've opened up a restaurant called Santa Fe—the most magnificent steel drumming I've heard in…a long time."

"Lunch at Santa Fe, in NYC?"

"We're living in America—take pride in any part of it but the part you call home, right?"

"I dunno…I don't go place if I don't know I'll like them from the start…" Her pickiness is mitigated by the sassily confident smirk she shoots him.

"Well, what do you like?" he nudges her as she picks up her bag and they start to walk.

"Um…well…I like dancing, and yoga, and yogurt, and Buddha, and Dorothy and Toto and Over the Rainbow…oh, and dear old Auntie Em…and, um, Maya Angelou, and Pablo Neruda, and…I like lunch dates…know anyone who's free?"

"I could probably rummage someone up," he grins, and holds out his hand for hers. "I'm Roger, by the way."

She takes his hand and twirls into him, leaning back to look into his eyes as he grins. "They call me…Mimi."


End file.
